Celia inclined her head; she could not speak; the blood surged to her
face, then left it white; her eyes closed, she felt as if she were going
to faint; the revulsion from terror to relief had been almost too great
for her.
The old gentleman saw the effect his words had upon her; he looked at
her curiously, his eyes piercing in their keenness.
"Tut! tut! What is the matter? Are you ill?" he asked, compassionately.
"No," Celia managed to enunciate. "I am tired. It is very hot--I was
resting when--when you came, I am not very well."
"Oh, I am sorry, very sorry that I should have disturbed you," he said.
"Pray forgive me. Is there anything I can do? Are you alone--I mean, is
there anyone to take care of you?"
Celia was touched by the kindly, paternal note in his voice; the
tears--they were those of joy and relief--rose to her eyes.
"No, I am alone," she said. "But I am all right; it was only a momentary
faintness. I will deliver your message."
He bowed, murmured his thanks and, with another glance of pity and
concern for her loneliness and weakness, he turned away--this time for
good.
Celia leant against the table, her hands closed tightly. "It is all
right," rang in her ears, thrilled in her heart.
"Oh, thank God, thank God!"
But the cry of thanksgiving changed to one of dismay.
The words evidently meant that the young man's innocence had been proved
or the charge had been withdrawn; but, whichever it meant, the message
had come too late. Oh, what had she done! She had saved his life, but
she had made him a fugitive, had condemned him to the cruellest of
fates, that of a doomed man flying from justice. Instinctively,
mechanically, she flew for her hat and jacket; then she realized, with
bitterness, the hopelessness of any such quest as that which, for an
instant, she had thought of undertaking. If she had known his name,
anything about him, the search would have been difficult; with her
complete ignorance it was an impossible one. She flung aside her outdoor
things with a gesture of despair.